5 o'Clock in the Morning
by gustin puckerman
Summary: Between moving on and letting go, Sherlock rediscovers what exactly it is to be human, and how Rose Tyler fits in the aftermath. Heavily based Inception concept.
1. breathing : missed call

**Disclaimer**: Everything belongs to their rightful owner(s).  
**Pairings**: developing Rose/Sherlock, deep Irene/Sherlock.  
**Genre**: Romance, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Family.  
**Word Count**: 1,804 words.  
**World/Story Setting**: Slight AU. Inception concept. Future-fic. Post-Season 3 [BBC Sherlock], post-Journey's End and in Pete's World [Doctor Who]  
**Rating**: T/PG-13. There will be cussing though.  
**Summary**: Between moving on and letting go, Sherlock finds that it might be easier when there's someone to lean on.

**Author's Note**: Okay. READ THIS UP. I don't know if any of you are aware of the notion of _Inception_ (one of the Leonardo DiCaprio's work) the film, but if you don't— you probably won't understand a few of the things I will mention. _Inception_ is centred around the concept of _dreams_, and how a group of people dug deep into it. Now, I'm taking this WhoLock twist _after_ the event happened in the film. So, since Sherlock will be closely portraying _Dom Cobb_ (Leo's character), he and Irene (who carried the character _Mal_ in the film) had a child, therefore an OOC is created. Unlike in the movie, they will only have one child together.

This story has been declared AU for various of reasons: (1) being the fact I've had Sherlock married to Irene. (2) They have a child together. (3) The fact I've decided to twist _Inception_ into this. But, personally, I'd like to think I've grasped more-or-less 20% of the show's plot such as their characters, and the basics of plot. I'm not quiet sure how I'll pull it off, but let's just see, shall we?

I'd also like to _note down_ that this story won't be in multi-chap. Perhaps it will be just as it is, a one-shot, or two-shot (or maybe, if I get excited enough and my brain's managed to pull off other ideas, a three-shot)— _but_ so far, there's no planning on it being a multi-chap. So. Yeah. _Meh_. I honestly don't know if testing this theory of mine (_this_ story) can match with your interpretation on how I see RoseLock, but I sure do hope you'll enjoy, nonetheless, of what I've written. Please feel free to share your opinions with me. It would be an honour to hear whatever you have to say :)

**Musical Inspiration**: "_Faithfully_" by Journey (but I'm hearing Boyce Avenue's cover and IT SHATTERED MY ROSELOCK HEART).

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**breathing**

_missed call_

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(When her phone rang, it was five in the morning.)

Rose zipped on her worn leather jacket up to her chin, sliding the hand-sewn, custom-made red scarf over her neck, tucking her unnatural blonde hair under the fabric, shuddering out cold air through a tiny slip between her lips — she sighed. She'd lost a glove, she thought, when she shoved her left, bare hands into the pocket of her jacket, her right hand gripping tight on the cool metal that was her phone as her foot stepped down the narrow stairs, finding themselves landing on the pavement.

It was drizzling.

There was a car or two skidding along the road that early in the morning, and for that one, cutting second, Rose forgot what exactly was that she's doing. It was a second later when she found herself staring blankly at the screen of her phone, her reflection was barely recognisable when the phone log hogged her screen, presenting his name and his two calls. One of it was a missed call.

She stared.

It's been a month since she's seen him— any of them, really. Though Mary and John dropped a call or two, and she's sent e-mails in return, there wasn't much of a connection between them anymore. Especially with _him_. Even though she was the closest back then to break through his cool facade and challenged him to face Irene head-on, the last she's heard of him was that he'd returned back to his daughter. And well, that was that. He never calls, didn't even _bother_ to.

That was, until that very morning.

She's missed his first call, but caught on when he rang the second time. Her voice had been sleepy, but her tone was on alert. She called out his name, a question: _Sherlock?_ His harsh breathing greeted her first — slow and heavy — and she remembered inhaling, frowning, and she's about to call out again when— "My hands' bleeding."

(For one moment, she stopped thinking — _stopped breathing_.)

"What—" had been her respond, confused but clear all at the same time. She straightened her back just a little; she fell asleep while going through plans on her table, and her shoulders hurt like hell. "Are you alright?"

He breathed, and detected panic in there, but he swallowed it down. "I broke the plates."

_Of course you did_, was what she wanted to say, but her mouth clammed shut, her drowsiness slowly seeping away. She paused, pondered and— "Sherlock." His name had sounded holy upon her breath, and she closed her eyes at it, imagined if it had caught his attention. She's quite certain it did. "Are you alright?"

"I—" He hesitated, and stopped. Before: "I don't know. I didn't call John."

She waited. "Why didn't you?"

"I can't."

"Can't?"

"Davies had his speech this morning. Been working on it for weeks. John wouldn't want to miss it." His response had came out near a whisper, like a disappointment, but not quite, even if he was talking about his godson. "Philippa's sleeping."

Philippa. _Philippa Holmes_. Eight years old, wasn't she? Rose pursed her lips. She could imagine Sherlock closed his eyes for a second, like something hurts somewhere, _just not the cuts on his hands_, before she heard a breath and then: "She has a fever. I can't—" he paused, just briefly and continued, "—My hand hurts."

_Of course they do_.

It took her a while to gather her thoughts, and reevaluate the whole situation, but she ran her fingers through her thickening hair when she finally did, drawing out trembling breaths; "Okay," she mostly breathed to herself, standing up. "I'll be right there. Don't move."

So now she stood there, on the pavement in front of her small apartment, her phone tucked between her fingers and the screen blackened, finally. There was a few lingering seconds afterwards that left her still staring against her screen, facing her own reflection and she noticed dark circles under her eyes and thought— _when's the last time since she's had a decent dream?_

(She curled her ungloved hands into a fist when she didn't find the answers, thumping her foot down the road.)

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She found him kneeled over in the middle of the living room, a clear glass split and stuck between the flesh of his left palm and his phone was covered in blood. He didn't look up once. Not even when she crossed to room to just drop right in front of him, their knees barely touching, his head ducked lower, his whole body hunching in defeat. Rose reached out for his face first, hushing out an obvious, "Gosh Sherlock," and she'd really wanted to say '_what have you done?_' but as she brushed a curl of his hair which brushed his eyebrow away, she knew there was no point.

She grabbed his hand then, gently, his blood fell onto her skin.

_It was bad_.

And on that moment, he finally mustered the energy to lift his chin up, glassy, bright eyes met with her hazel-brownish ones and there was a foreign look of remorse swimming in his pupils, shaping his expression. He looked down at their connecting hands, his lips in a straight line and he said in the lowest of whisper, with just the smallest amount of tremor existed: "I'm sorry."

(It wasn't meant for her— but she nodded anyway.)

She sighed then, a quiet one, examined the cut on his palm. He dropped his phone. And she almost wanted to blurt out, _tired, aren't you?_ And she'd wanted to point out that he wasn't the only one, but she didn't say any of that when the only words tumbling out was: "Come on, then." She managed a small smile, just because that's the only thing she could offer him on the moment. "Let's get you clean up."

And so she did.

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She ran his bath and cleaned his wound and during all those times, he didn't say a word. It was when her fingers interlocked with one of his dark curls and she noticed there were bruises — both old and new — on his body that she stopped her thumb over his temple, tilted her head to one side, intentionally trying to catch his gaze. The tension was thick, just like the blood she washed away from his hands, but her determination stood stronger; when he looked up, giving her those looks which heavily suggested he's sneering a sharp _What?_ all she could mutter was—

"You forgot to _just breathe_, didn't you?"

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He didn't answer her.

(—_he didn't need to_.)

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"Philippa will wake up anytime soon." He stated when he's all suit up, hands bandaged, his eyes purposely dropping to the wall behind her.

"She's an early riser then," she commented, giving him another one of her smiles, brushing her hair behind; she dragged her attention outside of his window, noting of the way the day began to colour the sky. She held another tired sigh, and restrained her hand from craning her neck. _God, she could collapse right then, she swears_. She passed him a look, her smile grew small, but it was there, and she knew he could see it. He didn't return it.

(Did he ever?)

"I better start making breakfast, yeah?" She asked him, raising her brows questionably.

He frowned with those typical fashion of his. "You don't need to do that."

_Yeah. Well. I need a drink_. She ignored him, crossing over to the kitchen and began rummaging through the cabinets and shelves. Besides from his gruesome body parts and empty supply of edible food, there was only one thought that embed at the back of her skull, and that was her drinks. Or to be more specific, _what kind_.

And then, just when she lost all hopes, her eyes spotted it.

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"Well, what do you know?" Rose breathed out an empty chuckle, and she could feel his stare bore through her back.

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_Tea_.

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**End Note**: Okay. Yeah. Maybe not a one-shot. There's more story behind this, and I very much so want to write Sherlock's daughter (with Irene). I guess this is a good way to begin things? Shrugs. So, yup. I decided _what the hell_ and have John and Mary had a son together instead of a daughter (Davies), and kept the name Philippa (also from the film) into this fiction as _Philippa Holmes_. I hope I've got to dwell more into Sherlock/Irene's relationship, and Philippa, and develop a slow but steady Sherlock/Rose's... whatever it was that they're having.

Anyways, this has been such a thrill to write. A review would be splendid :)


	2. breathing : waking up

**Disclaimer**: Everything belongs to their rightful owner(s).  
**Pairings**: developing Rose/Sherlock, deep Irene/Sherlock.  
**Genre**: Romance, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Family.  
**Word Count**: 1,534 words [_excluding End Note_].  
**World/Story Setting**: Slight AU. Inception concept. Future-fic. Post-Season 3 [BBC Sherlock], post-Journey's End and in Pete's World [Doctor Who]  
**Rating**: T/PG-13. There will be cussing though.  
**Summary**: Between moving on and letting go, Sherlock rediscovers what exactly it is to be human, and how Rose Tyler fits in the aftermath.

**Author's Note**: Never mind the lack amount of feedback, if you're giving this fiction a chance still, I thank you from the depth of the heart. You make my day. Now on this chapter, we'll be dwelling more on the morning after and I've got to write Sherlock's daughter, so that should be fun. And maybe we'll get an insight on how things ended up they way it did.

* * *

**breathing**

_waking up_

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There was just something about starting over, Sherlock discovered.

(That it was harsh, and it was cruel and it was―)

_That_. Sherlock's never been good at cutting the ties to his past. It had a way of nestling at the back of his head, spreading poison over his mind palace, or in reality, it had a way of cornering him in the end, no matter how he avoided it. He used to be phenomenal. Genius of the century. Consulting detective; investigating murders. And then, like any tragic there was rotting in what's left of the living world: he fell in love.

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On the other side of the room, Philippa began to stir awake.

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Sherlock had sat there on the same armchair he purchased way back before he even met John, his focus centred around his bandaged hands, and the synching, agonising combination of voices (that sounded annoyingly like Mycroft and his mother) screeched in his head like a dull chant of repeated "_how can you be so stupid_". He hadn't realise the tea Rose had neatly put in front of him, or that she'd went into his daughter's room without his permission whatsoever.

He was reminded again of how stubborn she really was.

She was kneeling by the bed when he came in from behind, Philippa had obviously just woken up, her eyes droopy and Rose had her hand caressing his daughter's mess of dark hair― there was a sickening smile on her face. Sherlock tried not to cringe as much. "How about some breakfast?" he heard she murmured and watched as Philippa denied her request, her face worn from the fever.

Rose hummed, and nodded slowly. "How about just a nice, warm cuppa? To soothe your throat, yeah?"

"I would like that," Philippa answered, her eyes dropped momentarily before it met with hers again and nodded. There's firmness in her expression that reminded Sherlock of her mother, but he kept it in, or a ghost of her, but he tried not to ponder over it for too long when he turned around and retreated back to his armchair, fixing his stare on the fireplace and made pretence that he's deep in his mind palace, knowing that Rose would want to chat, or revert him into some sort of pathetic conversation where he confessed some sad excuse for his behaviour last night.

_It was an accident_, he convinced himself. _He was only tired. Mentally_.

She didn't need to stay here.

(He never drink the tea she served.)

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"Your daughter's lovely."

_Of course she is_, he almost sneered but didn't make the mistake of moving. She moved past him and sat on the worn armchair John bought after the original one was destroyed in an accident during one of their criminal-chasing adventures. Though by then John no longer resided at 221B Baker Street, he'd made sure to still replace it, which was strange, but Sherlock didn't question it (well, not _much_) and accepted his sad of a reason that, "it made the apartment complete."

John didn't visit them for more than a week now.

Today was the day Davies delivered his speech in some kind of feeble, childish competition in his school and Sherlock only had this registered in his list to be remembered because John had made it a priority to remind it to him every chance he's got, and not to mention that he made Sherlock reviewed the damn speech for his godson. Though of course Sherlock was certain Davies would win― he took the liberty to scour the competition and none of them were even mildly good.

"John mentioned you're back at being a consulting detective."

It was a statement, not a question. He narrowed his eyes towards her anyway. She caught his stare, and his stomach didn't flinch at the way her eyes shone against the sunlight, the way her smile stretched over face― so freely, so genuinely. He was half-certain his skin nearly crawled. "How's that working out for you?"

He wanted to laugh at her pitiful attempt on making the conversation, but he was too sour to find the humour. "Fine," he drawled, then closed his eyes, exhaling out heavily through his nostrils. "Must you stay here any longer?"

"Sherlock," she called instead, and the familiar (ugly) streak of stubbornness flashed before her features. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Why not?"

"Because you're a mess," she told him― clean, cut truth sliced over his ego. Her eyes trailed over his wounded hand. "And I've gotten quite good at cleaning one up recently."

(There's a sound at the back of his throat that came out like a growl, but who was he to go against an honest wolf? Albeit she, herself looked more rundown than he'd last saw her; dark circles under her eyes, fresh wrinkles over her skin. Sleepless nights, that was for sure. A wolf without a dream. He almost _smirked_.)

He decided silence was the best answer.

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It had been a dangerous mission.

An Inception. A dream within a dream. Moriarty was the one who developed it, the one who made it all possible, though he'd only made it to the first phase. But since his great fall, his dramatic death, the idea was sealed shut behind a confidential file, stored only for the highest of governments to see. And in came The Woman, seeking for his help, and whispered him a devil's secret and embarking them on a journey of their lifetime. Happiness was a rare thing in their relationship; he thought she'd preferred on calling it contentment, a satisfaction, the part of their life where everything kind of fell together, and they were bounded, they were _in too deep_.

Philippa was unexpected as nearly everything that whirled in Sherlock's life, but she was one of the wonderful things to have happened to him. Like John, or Mary, or Mrs. Hudson, or Davies, or Lestrade, or Molly.

And then Mycroft started playing with dreams.

He experimented it, trying out his theories, and brought _The_ Woman into it. And for a moment, the whole concept of it was ideal. She started working for Mycroft and stealing ideas from dreams _for_ him, for the government. And Sherlock was there too, along the way, seeing the process, privately praising his former nemesis on the outstanding idea― he'd almost blurt it out, but it's truly genius. To haunt your competition in their dreams, to steal what's chained in the real world; an idea, a secret.

(He forgot the part where the lines of reality began to blur― where _she_ started crumbling, _craving_ for more.)

Sherlock's lost her to the thing that once held hope for the both of them, to the future they could've had. It weren't going to be easy, they calculated, but it was going to be worth it (it was _supposed_ to be, anyway). And he'd lost Philippa even when she's no longer around― she'd always make this sick joke that she'll never let him win, not when his means were to defeat her. And so he did. For a while there, he lost everything.

(It didn't help that he still kept her, _visited_ her when he's sleeping, sedated enough for another minute; just another second.)

Until Mycroft offered him an alternative: Inception.

Quick get in, quick get out. The mission: _planting_ an idea in the enemy's dream. Assembling the team had been complex, Mary offered to become the forger, wearing mask after mask into executing the plan as they've constructed it to be. John was his assistant; Sherlock needed him. Mycroft had decided he'll be joining along, just because. And he was the leader, the head of the group (though he distasted the position), and the one to create a stronger sedative.

Rose came in like a storm, and ripped his dream into the horrible truth

―a complete nightmare.

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It was almost eight o'clock in the morning  
and Sherlock still had no idea why he'd called  
her in the first place.

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**End Note**: _Gah_. Okay. Maybe we'll see more of Philippa in the next one. At least I've explained some stuff in this. And I've surprised myself by writing this fully from Sherlock's points of view― and I've also heavily inserted the Inception theory based from the film (to which you should watch if you haven't because unless you've seen it, it'll be harder for you to grasp on what's happened). So, yeah. That's that. I hope you had a good read, and a review would do me well :)


	3. ahead : strength

**Disclaimer**: Everything belongs to their rightful owner(s).  
**Pairings**: developing Rose/Sherlock, deep Irene/Sherlock.  
**Genre**: Romance, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Family.  
**Word Count**: 1,534 words [_excluding End Note_].  
**World/Story Setting**: Slight AU. Inception concept. Future-fic. Post-Season 3 [BBC Sherlock], post-Journey's End and in Pete's World [Doctor Who]  
**Rating**: T/PG-13. There will be cussing though.  
**Summary**: Between moving on and letting go, Sherlock rediscovers what it is to be human, and how Rose Tyler fits in the aftermath.

**Author's Note**: 1,907 words. So, how about another chapter? Enjoy.

* * *

**ahead**

_strength_

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Philippa was everything Rose had imagined her to be, and so much more.

Under the quiet persona (an enigma) she possessed, Rose inwardly praised over the plump shape of her cheekbones, no doubt inherited from her father, the long lashes that went on forever, the soft yet sharp eyes when she glanced over, the pale rosy lips she had albeit slightly chapped and swollen on the moment, the deep, rich colour of her dark hair, stopped just as it reached her shoulder blades.

She looked over, bare and warm.

At least her fever wasn't as bad, Rose rinsed off the young girl's hair and was still astonished at the fact that it didn't take a lot of attempts and empty promises to have the eight-year-old agree for a quick bath. Sure, Rose'd seen the uncertainty flickered in her young warm eyes, but it was though one look at the situation, she knew what was the better choice. Her father had been quiet, resided in his mind palace, the refusal to even talk hung still in the air, but he did not move to stop Rose― he gave her a harsh stare, briefly, but that was that.

Rose stood up and took the towel, wrapping it around Philippa's small body, and smiled a she watched her curled in utter relief at the contact. "There you go," Rose heard herself say, taking a smaller towel and began to dry the young girl's hair. "Fresh, yeah?"

Philippa didn't answer, not at first. "Are you going to stay here, miss?"

Rose blinked.

And then: "I, uh―" She settled with another smile, a quick sigh escaped her lips. "Not for long, no. I don't think your father would have liked that."

"He's trying his best." Philippa said instead, voice a meek, eyes strained on the bathroom's floor. Rose watched, suddenly a pang of guilt and remorse flushed over her system, and she questioned herself if it was the right decision to stay. Perhaps it wasn't. She'd underestimated the situation. Philippa continued nonetheless, bravely meeting Rose's warm hazel-brownish eyes. "He's trying his best to take care of me, but I don't think he's very good at taking care of himself."

Rose laughed at that, a little bit both on the humour and the humourless side, because there's a part of her that agree, the other felt just pathetic from the situation. "Well, he's learning. That's as good as any, right?"

"I suppose." Philippa hummed, a thoughtful expression passed over her pale features and Rose tried not ponder much on how much she resembled both of her parents, yet at the same time, _didn't_. "You helped him, didn't you? He wounded himself and you helped him up. That's why you're here. And you came here so early too. Your shirt's still a little damp from the rain."

_Ah_, Rose nearly break out a huge grin. The art of deduction had been passed along after all. She settled with another smile instead, though this time it's stretched wider and ran her hands down her towel-covered arms. "You're right. Your father called me just a few hours before. He was hurt, and I couldn't leave him alone. He's a friend."

"So, you'll stay?" Philippa's eyes fluttered, and in there, Rose detected hope. "Daddy doesn't have a lot of friends, and Uncle John's always so busy nowadays."

"Daddy's been a little lonely, huh?" Rose finally stood up, urging them to her small bedroom. "Though I couldn't imagine why, he's got you."

From the corner of Rose's eyes, she caught Philippa smiled at her sentence and she climbed quickly to her bed once she's in her bedroom, snuggling more against her blanket. "I figure Daddy needs an adult friend, and you're not very afraid of him, so that's good."

"It's good, huh?" Rose laughed then, a quiet chuckle.

Philippa performed a small smile, "I think I'm feeling a little bit better now."

Rose smiled at her, eyes wide, "Oh yeah?" She asked, and naturally leaned in to plant a kiss against the eight-year-old's forehead, feeling her temperature through her lips. "Yes, less warm. Better, yeah?"

"Much." Philippa cooed, a shy smile shimmied out from her lips. "Thank you for being daddy's friend, miss."

"It's Rose." Rose responded back coolly, pulling out a few of her clothes from the drawers. "You could always call me Rose, okay?"

Philippa nodded, and averted her eyes to the windows. "Okay."

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"Eat, Sherlock."

She said, her eyes flown over to the sunken part of his cheeks, the hollow curves on his wrists and tried not to give away of how tired she really was, as she stood there, pushing the plates of chips in front of him. Even an idiot could tell he'd lost more weight that he should, and it's only been a month. A _month_. How could he―

"No." He retorted, harsh and cold and definite, his eyes scanned to the door. "You should leave. John will be here any moment."

"That's rubbish, and you know it." Rose glanced at the clock (she knew Mary hung it, and it's still late by five minutes which was ridiculous but it reminded her of human error, and over the course of years stranded alone, feeling separated from the rest of humanity, Rose found comfort it in, like an inside joke nobody really understands ―) and knew Davies' speech competition always began, earliest, by nine and ended around eleven to noon. It had only been 9:30 by then.

His left eye twitched but he spun too soon that Rose wasn't so sure, her gaze fell back to his tall back, layered with the all-too-familiar black suit. "It's not healthy, Sherlock." She began again, allowing herself to sigh, just a little. "Can't keep on going like this. Philippa―"

"Leave―" he growled, deep and low, fixing his gaze over his shoulder. "―my daughter out of this."

"I'll leave it once you stop acting like a child!" She hissed, coming forward and bravely stepping over the boundaries to which she knew he constructed mentally around him, like a shield he put to keep everyone in the correct distance, and met his eyes, something at the back of her skull had wanted to do more than that, the fiery (nasty) anger burning up and igniting old, painful flame from their rest, but she held her breath, and counted back from three― _he was just as lost, wasn't he?_ "You have a responsibility in a form of a beautiful eight-year-old, Sherlock, and you're right here, trying to pull an act that everything's fine, trying to create a picture perfect image that everything will settle back to how it once were, all dainty and innocent, as though you've never _left_, but you're making a mess out of yourself and for goodness' sakes, _William_, your daughter's too smart for that."

He glared then ― _loathed_ to be called by his first given name ― while she kept a good, hard stare. "You're not perfect," Rose finally let out, though there's no threat in her sentences this time: just crumbling clarity, a little drip of the truth that she wanted him to hear. _Desperate_ for him to hear. "You don't have to be."

She watched him clenched his teeth, his sharp eyes fixed on her, before it trailed over her cheekbones, down to her lips and back to the lashes around her eyes; she swallowed, and he said:

"Get. Out."

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Pondering for a second, blinking, she thought: _what happened here?_ until her gaze found his bandaged hands and the heat from their proximity finally reached to her acknowledgement. She blinked again, for good measure.

(―and, you know―)  
she left.

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But she came back the next morning, (―she'd wanted to greet him first but decided to _go hell with it_ once she discovered he was asleep with Philippa snuggling to him with the morning lights barely making its way up to their faces, and she―) fixed their breakfast, stacked some of the light groceries she bought in the section where a body part wasn't left rotten, and made him tea. She knew half-way through her work he was already up and awake, alert by the foreign presence in the apartment, but did nothing other than standing there when she hummed the softest tune of an ancient lullaby she'd learned as a child from her mother and washed some dishes.

He disappeared before she could say anything first, but she quickly went on to wake Philippa up, fixing her bath. Her fever had lessened over a night and she'd insisted she could wash herself on her own, but they made a deal that she'd do it all by herself as long as Rose was allowed to come in and check every five minutes.

Sherlock played the violin over the next twenty-minutes, just as she served the tea and invited breakfast.

He ignored her, as usual.

But there's a set of clothes on the table (_her_ old clothes, to be precise, from the time when she's spent a night or two here, back when they still had the Inception mission to go through―) when she went to the kitchen, and a towel folded besides it. She could almost hear the hint of disgust in his voice, snarling when she ran her fingers over the fabric: "Might I recommend a decent shower, Miss Tyler? Surely just _one_ wouldn't hurt your stubborn pride."

He played the violin louder, but her fingers curled over the clothes, and she grinned towards his way.

―and she supposed, _it was the thought that counts_.

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(He met her grin, but played pretence that he didn't see it.

He still didn't understand how a hollowed-out character such as her would still do that,  
would still be able to smile like that, like the earth had just give a new life to her breath, when the space  
itself doomed her here, expelled her to where she fits nowhere,

until she wounded up _here_.  
In his apartment, making his tea; how could she do that he had no idea―

but she smiled anyway.  
Because that's Rose Tyler for you.)

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And then, he guessed.

He really didn't mind it.

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(―her smile reminded him of _tomorrow_. another way to wake up, get hurt, fall in love and still lives.)

* * *

**End Note**: I have no idea where this leads to (_but it's just so fun I can't help it_)― I'm sorry?


End file.
